


first and lasting

by zeldalookslonely



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Meetings, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Moth Aziraphale, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-01-04 03:37:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21190916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldalookslonely/pseuds/zeldalookslonely
Summary: Crowley meets London's new demon, Zira.





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley meets London’s other demon while he’s stalking the Archangel Michael, newly appointed resident guardian of Earth. He supposes this _other _demon, _Zira: The Usurper, Encroacher of Territories and Crowley’s Nemesis_, is stalking her too. 

Zira. _Zira_. Six millennia of service and Crowley is nearly shit-canned after one overly-long nap. Threatened with redundancy, threatened with being replaced by a demon named _Zira_. As if the humans hadn’t gotten up to enough trouble on their own! Still, it makes it especially galling that Zira has gotten around to finding Michael first. He’s clearly made it a priority over fitting in with humans, anyway, since his clothes are outdated by at least fifty years. And is he? Yes, he’s reading an _actual physical newspaper_.

Crowley stomps over to the (very conspicuously placed) bench Zira is sitting on outside of Michael’s house. “Print is dead,” he spits, “I’m the one who killed it.”

Zira frowns, but brightens as he looks up at Crowley’s face. “You must be Crawly! I’ve been looking forward to--”

“It’s Crowley.”

“Oh.” Zira frowns again. “I’m sorry, my dear. Beelzebub said your name was Crawly.”

“Of course they did.”

“In hindsight, they were very pointedly and mischievously emphatic about it. I probably should have suspected it was the wrong name. Crowley.” He gestures to the spot next to him. “Will you sit, Crowley?”

Crowley sits. “Is your name really Zira?”

“It is!” He sounds delighted. Crowley tries not to roll his eyes.

“What are you doing here? Recon? How long have you been tracking her?”

“Ah. Yes. Reconnaissance. That does sound like a sensible thing to be doing. Definitely something that needs to be done. Useful.”

Crowley’s lip twitches. “What are you actually doing?”

“Well. I introduced myself to her yesterday and she got rather… rather…”

“Smite-y?”

“Exactly! It was a near-miss, I’ll tell you that! And I was just trying to be friendly! So, I followed her home, and I’ve been slowly turning every book she owns into _Atlas Shrugged_.”

Crowley whistles. “Harsh.”

“Smite-y!”

Crowley slouches back against the bench. “Still. And you know she’ll just turn them back, right?”

“Ah, but my dear, she’ll always know they were once _Atlas Shrugged_. Deep down. You see?”

Crowley does see, but he doesn’t say so. This is his nemesis, after all. Zira stares ahead, presumably focusing on his task, and Crowley takes a moment to examine him. Pale. Shapely. Fluffy white hair. Oh.

“Oh. Is your-- is your hair all moths?”

Zira _beams_. “You noticed! Nobody ever notices!” He rakes a hand through his “hair” and comes away with a moth on every finger. “He noticed you, my little darlings!” He holds his hand out to Crowley who tentatively reaches out to stroke a moth’s downy wing. One of them hops from Zira’s hand to Crowley’s, crawls up to his wrist. “Oh, they like you,” says Zira, pleased.

“They’re handsome little buggers, aren’t they,” Crowley says, before he remembers they’re nemesis-moths and not supposed to be handsome.

“Oh, they _are_,” Zira says, and he’s positively glowing, radiant with pride.

Crowley clears his throat. Looks away. Suddenly, thunder cracks and the moth on Crowley’s wrist takes flight, landing to huddle on Zira’s head with the rest of his siblings. Crowley has a strange urge to snatch it back, keep it with him.

“Oh dear,” Zira says, as rain starts pouring down on them. “It does this quite often, doesn’t it?” He shakes out his newspaper, holds it over Crowley’s head. “Where are you heading? I’m done here.”

Crowley huddles closer. The rain is freezing. “Have you eaten?”

“Oh. Well, I did try it. Coffee and tuna. I don’t think I did it right. It was…”

“I can imagine. Lets try you something else. What do you say? I know a place.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” He points to his car. “You can ride with me.”

“Oh.” Zira smiles. “Okay.” They stand, and Zira says, “Wait! Can you tell me-- What is it really like, living up here on earth? You’ve been here so long.”

“It’s lonely,” Crowley says, too honest, but Zira is looking at him with wide eyes and carefully balancing the rapidly-soaking newspaper over his head. The moths shimmy and sway in unison, shiny-damp.

“I had noticed that,” Zira says. He looks up. “Maybe not so much, anymore?”

“Maybe not,” Crowley says. “Maybe not.”


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley meets up with Zira twice every week. Once for dinner, once for lunch; they go to a different restaurant every time. Crowley finds himself looking forward to these outings, which is strange and new to him: he’s never been able to talk shop openly, but it’s nice. It’s nice to watch the pleasure on Zira’s face as he moans over different flavors and textures. To tease him when he sways a little closer to a bright light. To be teased when he can’t help hissing. Nice. Not that he’d ever say that out loud.

He’s hesitant to rock the boat, even a little, but one night he says without thinking, “Come back to mine. We can finally introduce you to alcohol properly.”

…

His flat is swarmed with moths before the wine is uncorked. On a whim, Crowley spreads his wings wide and sure enough, fluffy white moths perch all over his dark feathers. He laughs.

“Oh dear,” Zira says. “I don’t know why they won’t behave around you.” He sounds vaguely embarrassed, which Crowley obviously cannot let stand.

“They have spectacular taste and instincts, clearly.”

“I’m sure that’s it,” Zira says dryly, but his lips twitch up into a smile. He snaps his fingers and all the moths zoom back to him.

“They’re perfect, you know,” Crowley says, perhaps more sincerely than the situation warrants, because Zira’s eyebrows go way up and he _grins_. Crowley clears his throat. “Anyway! Wine!”

Thankfully it only takes two glasses for Zira to slump to the floor, cackling. “I want to see!” he says.

“See what?”

“You, scales, slithery!” Insultingly, he curls his fingers into the shape of claws and hisses.

“Did you just mimic a cat?”

“What? No!”

Crowley drains his glass, pours another. Tops off Zira. “Snakes don’t have _claws_.”

“Those were fangs!” Zira protests. He gazes up at Crowley through his eyelashes. “Won’t you?”

Like that’s fair. Crowley sighs and, hopefully with adequate drama, transforms into a large serpent. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? He stretches out. Feels good.

“Oh,” Zira breathes, “how lovely!”

“Fearssssome,” Crowley corrects, and rears back in a mock attack.

Zira coos. Strokes down the length of his long spine. “Lovely,” he says again.

Crowley tries to sneer; ruins it with a laugh. Slithers closer to Zira, winds around his waist. Rests his head on his shoulder. Tastes the air around them. Some things are easier as a snake.

“Do you have friends?” Zira asks, twisting his head to make eye contact.

“Have had.”

“Where are they now?”

“Dead,” Crowley says. “All dead.”

“Ah. Humans.”

“Humansss.”

“I had friends. Have them, below. They staged a bit of an intervention for me, before I moved up here. Do you know Duke Hastur?”

“Too well.”

“You have to be a little _different _to want to go up there in the first place,” Zira says in a passable imitation of Hastur’s voice. “And when you’re up there too long, you just get worse and worse. Don’t go.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am.”

Crowley instinctively pulls himself a bit tighter around Zira. “He’ssss not wrong, you know.”

“No,” Zira says, sipping his wine. “He’s not.”

…

Crowley fills his closet with wool sweaters. Incinerates his neighbor’s cedar chest. Incinerates __all __cedar chests. Punctures every tire on pest control vans. He’s been on earth long enough to understand that humanity can be absurd and wonderful as well as absurd and cruel, but lately the cruelty seems much more prominent.

“Really, my dear,” Zira says when, out of habit, Crowley makes a bug zapper explode with a snap of his fingers. “That’s hardly necessary.” Humans shriek and flee the offending storefront, and Zira yanks Crowley across the street.

“Professional courtesy,” Crowley mutters. 

“Of course. Shall I start providing you with live rodents?”

Crowley grins. “Oh, they find me well enough on their own.”

Zira huffs, and grabs the ends of Crowley’s lovingly moth-eaten cashmere scarf. “They tell stories about you, did you know that?”

“They?”

“Everyone down below. _The Great Serpent of Eden_, they say. _The Original Tempter_. You tempted Eve out of paradise right under Her nose. You instigated the Spanish Inquisition. Changed weather patterns to create natural disasters. Started the second world war. You engineered climate change!”

“Ah, well, about that--”

“And what are you working on now?

“Well--”

“Did you really sleep through the Apocalypse?”

The Apocalypse again. Why does everyone keep bringing up the Apocalypse? “Only the last couple years. I’m still not sure how that managed to work itself out in the end.”

Zira gives him a strange, fearful look. “Crowley, it _didn’t _work itself out in the end. It never happened! Beelzebub was humiliated. Lucifer was furious! He ranted for weeks before sending me up here.”

“You know Satan personally? He used to be a fan of mine, you know.”

Zira sighs. Shoves the scarf back against Crowley’s chest. “How can I-- If you won’t even--”

“Zira, come on. Relax. I get it.” He shrugs, bares his teeth in a smile. “You can tell them the truth, tell them whatever you want. Did you really think I hadn’t noticed they already sent up my replacement?”

Zira grimaces and a dozen moths flutter away from his head and fly pell-mell into Crowley’s hair. One settles just above his right ear. He probably looks like he got into a fight with some bleach. Zira waves his hand and the several eye-witnesses to this event blink and wander away.

Crowley laughs sharply. “Can I keep them? I’m naming them all Zira Junior.”

“They told me we would be working together; I was supposed to learn from the best. I was supposed to learn everything I could about life up here. I didn’t think… but now, the questions they’re asking… I’m…”

“I get it.” And he does. Sometimes Zira seems very young to him, though he supposes that could come from such differing experiences. How can he explain how old he is, how alone? How short human lives are? How it felt to be part of the machine intended to bring about the Apocalypse? “I’m a very old snake,” he says. “Ancient. Archaic. I’m a relic.” If they want to demote him to paper-pushing, or toss him in the pits, well. It is what it is. “I’m tired.”

“Exactly! You’re just tired,” Zira says, and materializes a bench right in the middle of the sidewalk.

“You’re going to need to work on your subtlety, we’ve talked about this.”

“Sit, rest.”

“I didn’t mean that I’m literally tired right at this moment,” Crowley says with a sigh. He sits anyway. Pets the wing of a moth crawling down his neck.

“I know.” Zira says. “I know.”

…

Zira zooms into Crowley’s flat like he owns the place, waving a handful of loose papers around in his hand.

“Please, do come right in, make yourself at home,” Crowley says, more sarcastically than he means in an effort to cover his surprise. He regrets it when Zira stops short, blinking, frowning; he’s hurt. A shock of reciprocal pain flames up and burns through Crowley’s chest at the sight, so sudden and intense that Crowley actually slaps his hand over his heart -- as if that could halt the spread.

“I could come back later,” Zira says, avoiding Crowley’s eyes.

“No, no. Ignore me. I’m… I’m just tired.” But Zira looks distinctly un-comforted, and Crowley holds up both hands in surrender. “Forget it! Just tell me what’s going on. Everything okay?”

Zira slams the papers down on Crowley’s kitchen counter. “You’re about to go on a library-closing spree.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve been influencing funding decisions all over the country, and you’re about to reap the rewards!”

“Rewards?”

“Crowley! Pay attention! You’re about to close all these libraries!” He pushes the papers across the counter. “I tried, but I couldn’t manage without your help. I’m sorry, but I really think we’re both needed up here. And that’s what we’ll put in our reports to home office, correct?”

Crowley is reluctantly impressed. “You really got them to defund so many libraries?”

“Ah, well, no. Not really. This is more like hopping on an already moving train, so to speak.”

Crowley bursts out laughing. Now he’s enthusiastically impressed. “I see.”

“Humans are so good at being demons. It’s truly humbling.”

“Indeed.”

Zira takes a deep breath. Swirls a finger through his nest of moths. “You always act like you’re so alone up here. But you’re not anymore, right? You don’t have to do everything on your own anymore.”

“Nothing is forever.”

“I’m not human! I’m not going to die on you.”

“Zira, being friends with someone is hardly the same as spending an eternity together.”

Zira stills and red bleeds into his cheeks. Moths dip low over his eyebrows in a gesture Crowley recognizes as soothing. “Of course,” he says, shuffling a few steps backward.

Oh no. Crowley lurches forward to grab Zira’s hand. “Wait, wait. I didn’t! What I meant was. Ugh, what I meant was it’d feel almost worse than death, right? Cause you’d _choose _to leave. Eventually.”

Zira is silent for a beat, then says, “If you don’t want to stay, if you’re too tired, if it’s too much, I understand. But I’m not going anywhere. You’re not alone.”

But Zira still looks like he might flee, and Crowley is forced to consider, really consider, how it would feel to let him. He swallows, painful through his dry throat, and says, “I could stay. Libraries. Et cetera.”

“If you want,” Zira says lightly. “For the libraries.”

“Can’t let these humans get used to… resources. 

“Hell forbid.” Zira pulls him into a tight hug. Releases him just as quickly. “I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Crowley says. Tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

After trying out what seems like every hotel in London, Zira takes a flat above a high-end clothing store.

“Dastardly,” compliments Crowley, instead of _stay with me, stay with me, you could stay with me, if you like_. So he picks up a box of chocolates; carefully selects a house plant to bring over as a gift -- nothing too fussy. Nothing too thirsty. “Low maintenance,” he says, drumming his fingers against the pot. “Won’t be a bother.”

“I don’t mind a bother,” Zira says, eyeing a glossy green leaf. “It’s flawless.” 

It’s not a compliment.

“Nothing is flawless,” Crowley says lightly, “but my plants are close.”

Zira hums. “Nothing indeed. Thank you. For the… thank you.”

Crowley means to ask Zira out to a meal, but he’s finding it hard to speak, hard to open his mouth. He smirks. Raises an eyebrow. Wonders what it would be like if he were the type of demon who could ask, outright, what it is they’re not talking about.

“Oh, do sit down,” Zira snaps, huffs away to his small kitchen, only to return empty handed. He sits next to Crowley on his threadbare white leather sofa, frowning. “I ran into Michael today.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. She got quite the drop on me, actually. I was adding weeds to her flower beds and she turned up right beside me.”

“So when you say you ran into her, what you mean is she caught you in plain view, loitering outside of her home?”

“Spare me the lecture, please.”

“I keep telling you not to act like you’re invisible! Everyone can see you!”

“Nobody pays attention!”

Crowley flings his hands in the air. Does he really need to point out the obvious here?

Zira sighs. “She didn’t try to smite me this time, at least. In fact, she asked about you. By name.”

“Did she? How is our resident Archangel? I’m surprised she’s stayed here so long.”

Zira goes very still. “So you do know her?”

“Sure. I know them all. You know how they cycle through. Did you know that was Michael’s idea? She’s a smart one; before her, one angel might stay down here for a thousand years. Now it’s a few years, in and out. She could see, you know? She could see what it would mean for an angel to get too attached here.”

“It almost sounds as if you like her,” Zira says.

Crowley shrugs. _Like _is a very strong word to describe someone who has tried to discorporate you, but not entirely inaccurate. “It’s so rare to find an angel with any sense.”

“Well,” Zira says, strangely harsh, “She asked me to give you a message. _Meet me where it all began_.”

Crowley groans, wrinkles his nose. “Eden. Ugh. Why is it always Eden? It was a job! It was just a job, and now everyone thinks I want to relive my glory days in Eden. I’ve accomplished plenty since Eden!” He massages his temple. “Ugh, the _travel_. I hate travel to Eden.”

“Crowley,” Zira says tightly, “Do you mean to tell me you’re planning to go? To meet an annoyed Archangel _alone _on her terms?”

“Oh, she’s never as annoyed as she looks. That’s just her face.” Now Zira looks as annoyed as Michael ever could, though Crowley really doesn’t understand why. Michael wouldn’t bother to ask to meet him if she didn’t have something important to say. 

“Crowley, I don’t… don’t you ever miss it?”

Crowley tips his head back in thought. Hums. “Sometimes. I miss the stars.”

Zira shoots to his feet. “I didn’t mean _heaven_!” A small swarm of moths fly at Crowley’s face, and for a second he thinks he’s being attacked, but they settle peacefully in his hair. Almost protectively. “Traitors,” Zira hisses. He stomps out the door. Of his own flat. Leaves Crowley behind, goes off alone. Alone.

…

He spots Michael waiting for him by the apple tree. _Of course_ she is, _of course_ she thinks she’s being clever. Angels would be so much easier to tolerate if they didn’t all think they were so clever. Michael looks out of place in the overgrown wilderness the garden has become; a beige, severe angel in a beige, severe pantsuit.

“Why is every angel a cliche?” Crowley asks, wings up, fangs out. No use looking like a sitting duck.

“Demon Crowley,” Michael says with affected boredom, “If only we could all be as subversive as you, in your black leather jacket.”

Crowley snorts. “You’re the one who called me here.”

Michael looks up, squinting as if she can see the sun through the dense foliage. “We have a problem with the Antichrist.”

“_We _don’t have a problem with the Antichrist. I have nothing to do with the Antichrist. Haven’t seen him since he was born.”

“You raised him,” Michael says, smirking. “_Yes_, of course I know about that.”

“Then you know that wasn’t the Antichrist.”

“I also know it doesn’t matter who it was. I know you raised the boy for years. I know you were reassigned, and that’s when you lost your touch, isn’t it? Gabriel and Beelzebub were baffled, both.”

Crowley narrows his eyes. He didn’t even know Beelzebub was conspiring with Gabriel. _Gabriel_, of all angels. Of course, some level of espionage always goes on in hell, but _Gabriel_? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Michael laughs. “They still don’t believe a demon like you can care. It didn’t even occur to them that you’d _love _the child you raised.” She sounds smug, rightly; once upon a time this conversation would have been terrifying to Crowley. Once upon a time he’d have already lashed out. But now? 

“Oh no,” Crowley says dryly. “You found me out. Whatever will I do?”

“What?” Michael says. She steps closer, looks him in the eye for the first time.

He laughs. “What’s your plan? Are you going to tell Beelzebub on me? _Go ahead_. Are you threatening to hurt the boy? I don’t think you will. He’s one of yours, isn’t he?”

Michael’s shoulders slump. “There’s no plan. I’m trying to ask for your help.”

“My _help_.”

“It’s the Antichrist. The boy seems to have… paused the Apocalypse, rather than stopped it all together. He’s still powerful, influential.”

“So?”

“There’s to be a coordinated effort between Heaven and Hell to convince the Antichrist to restart the Great War. If, or when they are successful, the Apocalypse will begin and the earth will be destroyed.”

“_They_?”

“What?”

“You said ‘when _they _are successful’, as if you’re not part of Heaven; as if you’re not the Archangel Michael. Don’t you mean _we_?” Michael _squirms_, which makes the hassle of travel suddenly worthwhile,and Crowley laughs. “Dear Satan, you’ve gotten attached, haven’t you?” He probably shouldn’t be surprised; he’s never known a single angel to practice what they preach.

“My motivations are not relevant,” Michael says, and how she manages to get that drivel out with a straight face, Crowley will never know. Suddenly her prevaricating is no longer funny. None of this is amusing, not anymore.

“And you want me to -- what? Try to influence the boy to prevent the war?”

Michael looks down, then abruptly up into Crowley’s eyes. “Adam Young is a danger to all of humanity.”

Crowley’s nails dig hard into his palms, but he keeps his tone light. “Ah, of course. I see now. You want me to do your dirty work. Makes sense. You need keep those hands clean, don’t you? Keep those wings white. Wouldn’t want a stain on your _pristine _reputation.” He turns away, prepares to fly. He’s got to get out of here.

“At least consider it,” Michael says. “I know you don’t want the world to end! You can prevent it.”

“Right,” he says, without glancing behind him. He takes off.

“You’re _already damned_,” she calls after him urgently. As if he doesn’t know.

…

Crowley arrives home to find Zira asleep on his sofa. He’s curled into an uncharacteristically tight ball, taking up as little space as possible, arms clenched over his soft stomach. He almost glows in the blue light of the television screen, flickering through infomercials. There’s a small cup of Crowley’s favorite ice cream, still frozen, on the coffee table; cappuccino and dark chocolate, very rich. Not too sweet. Doesn’t take much to satisfy. Not Zira’s taste at all.

Crowley transforms into a snake. 

He coils heavy over Zira’s ankles; tries to soak up the warmth here: the body heat, the gesture, what it feels like to be on somebody’s mind even when he’s not in their presence. Even when they disagree.

What it feels like to come home to someone.

Zira shifts and stretches, jostling Crowley, who hisses in what is hopefully a very intimidating way. Zira blinks at him, and smiles, slow, til he’s beaming and bright, all focused on Crowley. 

“Crowley,” he says, “You’re safe. You’re here.”

“Yes,” Crowley says.

“Should I… do I have to say it? The apology? Or can we just…”

Crowley decides he needs facial expressions, transforms back into his human-like shape. Regrets it when he remembers much facial expressions give away. “S’not necessary,” he mumbles.

“Did she try anything?”

“Do you really want to Apocalypse to happen?” Crowley asks, abruptly. It comes out harsher than he meant to say it; too honest.

“It’s everything we’ve been working towards for thousands of years,” Zira says, by rote.

“Yes,” Crowley says.

“It’s the highest of priorities downstairs.”

“Yes.”

“No,” Zira says. “No. I don’t.”

“Okay,” Crowley says. Breathes in. Out. Breathes. 

“Turn back,” Zira says gently. “I’m tired. Do you want--?”

“Yes,” Crowley says. “Yes.”


End file.
